Emily's Strange Life Chapter 9

There is no reason why I should be cooking dinner for my landlady, but somehow it seems to have turned out that way. I blame the sexist manufacturers of meat sauce jars. Mrs Pilsudski couldn't get the jar she'd bought to go with her evening meal open and neither could I, so now it sits there mocking our female weak wristedness while I glower at it and make a casserole from scratch.

“You are such a good girl, Aoife, to help me out like this,” Mrs Pilsudski sighs

“It's nothing, really, I would have been making dinner anyway, so there isn't really any difficulty just making a bigger portion.”

“You're going to make some lucky fellow a wonderful wife one of these days- oh don't look at me like that. I know you career girls think I'm very old fashioned, but believe me there's nothing wrong with having a family.”

“Err..Mrs Pilsudski, I did tell you about..”

“Oh yes, I know, dear, but believe me, I've raised four children and it's a lot easier with a man to help you.”

“I'm sure you aren't wrong Mrs Pilsudski, but if it's not the right man it's way worse than being alone.”

“So right you are dear, I was lucky with my Hermann, God rest his soul, but all the same, a young lady like yourself, you try to have it all, career and children with no one to help you, believe me, it's no easy path.”

I winced internally. Mrs Pilsudski was a lovely person, but she had that habit, common to a lot of old ladies who'd come triumphantly to harbour after a lifetime of storm and struggle, of letting the rest of us know just how much trouble we were in for.

“I don't really think being a barista and waitress counts as a career. Job yes; career, no.”

“Oh, believe me honey; you have a career for life with Mr Adams, only the other day he was telling me how well liked you are there. He may be a mad old coot who looks like silverback gorilla that's been taught to walk upright and strategically shaved, but he's a good mad old silverback gorilla. You can rely on him.”

“That's true, I'm lucky to have met Mr Adams“

I was pretty lucky to have met Mrs Pilsudski come to that. She was an elderly widow who'd refused to leave her big old rambling house when her children and grandchildren had moved on to other cities and other states. The only trouble was she was nearer eighty than seventy years old now and although she still kept the place in fine shape some things were starting to be just too much physically and expensive to hire someone else to do.

Hermann, ('God rest his soul') who apparently had been a saint with a striking resemblance to James Stewart had left her 'well-provided for' as she liked to put it, but she was saving as much as she could for her grandchildren's inheritance. This being the case it hadn't taken Father Flaherty long to persuade her that what the house really needed was a nice, quiet young lady paying rent for a spare bedroom, who could do things like moving bins (Or undoing jars. Darn it, I'm a failure).

I suspected Father Flaherty had hinted I would also help out generally round the house. I'd never been asked formally but I'm not the kind of person who can sit still while an old lady is working so that was always going to happen anyway. On top of that Mrs Pilsudski was a deep sleeper, so there was no problem coming in from late shifts. In short, it was perfect. My biggest problem was Mrs Pilsudski fretting that I didn't eat right!

“Are you working tonight?”

“No, I've got the evening free.”

“Such a pity my grandson Harold isn't here you know, with you having a free evening, he'd be just right for you. He's young,he's handsome, good provider,”

I had my doubts. I'd seen photos of Harold. He looked kind, he looked cheerful, but either he was one of those people who just don't come out well in photos or Mrs Pilsudski and I had very different ideas of what was handsome. On the other hand, maybe there was a point to matchmaking. Look what a mess I'd made of my life by following my heart. All things considered it was probably a good thing that grandson Harold was electronic engineer on a warship somewhere in the Atlantic desperately trying to stem the flow of arms from Britain, France and goodness knows where else into Canada, so for all practical purposes the problem would never arise.

Aloud, all I said was, “Honestly, I think Harold is busy enough without having random waitresses sprung on him.”

“Don't you call yourself random, young lady,” Mrs Pilsudski looks so fierce as she says this that I actually feel a bit nervous.

“Umm. Yes, Mrs Pilsudski.”

“Besides, I can tell, whatever you may be doing - and never let me hear you be ashamed of honest work – you definitely haven't always been a waitress.”

That, of course, was a remark which required a week's answer or none at all, so I changed the subject and Mrs Pilsudski happily told me all about how her grandchildren were doing again while I diced tomatoes and mushrooms, and continued to chat away amiably all through dinner until I went to bed, hoping that her offer to invite her other grandson Kyle to come from Kentucky to stay for a while hadn't been entirely serious.

I know Michael very well. I think about him constantly. That's how I instantly knew, waking in my moonlit bedroom that Michael had found me. The way the restraints that tied my hands so securely to the brass bedstead combined inescapability with softness told me they could be the work of no one else. Michael likes to dominate but he's always been very careful not to hurt me. Apart from the time he pulled a gun on me.

“Emily!” Michael whispers “Time to come home.”

“You tried to kill me!”

“No! Never! I just wanted to get you to drop the gun before things got out of hand.”

“I think I can comprehensively say you were several years and an invasion too late there.”

“Oh come on, Emily. Since when did you care about politics?”

“All my life for all I can tell, “ I begin and then he cheats by kissing me. I'd slap his face but my hands are tied and besides, I'm too busy melting.

“This won't work, “ I manage to say when he breaks the kiss, but already I'm sounding breathy and uncertain

“It has to, Emily. I've really stuck my neck out over you. I've managed to get you a promise of citizenship and a guarantee of your freedom from any consequences, not just from this little escapade but from anything you did in the war as well.”

Escapade? My desperate bid for freedom is an escapade?? I think, but Michael is still talking, gabbling on in his need to persuade me that being kidnapped and dragged back to be his live-in love slave is a good thing.

“You have to stay with me obviously. There have to be certain guarantees.”

“Guarantees? Like the bracelet with the tracker in it? I still haven't forgiven you for that by the way.”

“Sort of. You'd have to wear this.”

'This' is – I actually snort with inappropriate laughter when he shows it to me – a collar. Slim, circular, etched with swirling flower patters to try to give the impression it's a necklace, but quite definitely a collar.

“Michael! I can tell that has nothing to do with guarantees!”

“On the contrary. This enables the Army to track you wherever you go. It can give you a shock that incapacitates you so you can be picked up. It's made of titanium alloy. If you wore out ten thousand hacksaw blades you'd maybe have made a decent scratch on it. That's the guarantee that keeps you free and safe.”

“Ha! I bet you begged the scientists to come up with this one. I bet they were just going to do an implant. “

Michael smiles at me.

“I'm not going to tell you what they wanted to do. The point is I won't let them. You're my Emily.” Michael pauses “Besides, you know you look pretty in collars.”

I blush in the moonlight. To my great embarrassment I do know that. No, I'm not going into detail but its for the same reason I know how it feels to be tied to the bed by him. Oh God, I'm such a slut.

“Don't get my hair caught in it this time,” I murmur as Michael fastens the collar on my throat. I should terrified. I should be outraged. I should be spitting defiance. But honestly? All I can feel is relief! I've done everything anyone could expect of me. I escaped. I took a false identity. Now I'm caught and I can't hope to escape again. So I can forget about it. I can go back to being Michael's girl and nobody can blame me, not even me. Maybe I can even be a good influence on him; after all, surely he'll settle down a bit once he's a father.

Then Michael is kissing me again and his hands are on me, roaming possessively as my legs gently open of their own accord and I can't think any more.

* * * * *

“Mmm. God I've missed that” says Michael as I snuggle into him.

“Me too. Don't get too used to it though. I'm still cross with you. You may have to sleep on the couch for a while.”

“If I do, you do too. You aren't getting away from me that easily.”

Michael rolls me on to my back to my apparent indignation and actual delight when a thought suddenly occurs to me.

“Wait! You do know about the child don't you?”

Of course he doesn't, you dizzy mare, you didn't tell him

“Whoa! You're pregnant? Is that why you ran off?”

“Well that and the other obvious reasons.”

“Honestly Emily, you really are a ditz sometimes.” Michael gathers me into an enormous bear hug “As if something like that could ever come between us. You can easily have an abortion or if you're scared we can just give it up for adoption.”

“NO!!!”

The force of my anger is so great it wakes me from my dream and I find that I'm sitting bolt upright in bed, alone, panting with fury.

“Aoife, are you all right?”

Now I've done it. I've actually managed to wake my landlady with my nightmares.

“I'm sorry Mrs Pilsudski, I just had a bad dream.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, no, I'm OK. Sorry I woke you.”

“Well if you're sure dear. Night, night.” I hear Mrs Pilsudski shuffle down the corridor and as I get my breath under control I feel a tear trickling down my cheek.

My subconscious has obviously decided I need reminding of the most important thing. I very much doubt if Michael would want me to have an abortion or give our child away but if I weakened and went back to him it would become his choice, not mine.

Which meant all I could do was go on trying to make the best of what I had. Go on missing him. Go on aching.